Becoming L
by Eskarina
Summary: The story of the little boy who grew up to be the world's greatest detective, and why he wanted to be that in the first place. No pairing so far, may possibly put one in in later chapters. Disclaimer: I don't own Death note
1. Trauma

In the yorkshire dales, there is a manor house

In the Yorkshire dales, there is a manor house. It is a beautiful place; the gardens are large and elegant, the drive way vast. There is a tennis court that is growing ragged with use, and a small climbing frame that also looked extremely played-upon.

The rooms are filled with beautiful things, paintings and vases and furniture the likes of which most people would never see. There's even a ball-room, though there are talks among the master of this house and his wife to have this room made into an indoor pool instead.

There was a couple who lived there, Lord and Lady of this house and some of the land around it.

The master was a tall and handsome man, his hair a mass of ebony and eyes as black as coal.

The lady of the home was beautiful and fair. Oh yes, due to her somewhat inbred ancestry she had been born an albino, but this couldn't possibly detract from how much her husband loved her.

They had two sons. The young masters of the manor, The older one the image of his father, but for his pale skin that spoke very much of his mother's genetic disorder.

The other son was a baby, only months of age, and he had caught the full blast of genetics and had a crop of white curls flourishing on his head. His dark pink eyes were huge in his face, giving the impression of a baby panda.

It was the oldest boy in the manor's birthday. He was five.

It was also Halloween, fortunate, as the young master had a sweet tooth. The Lord said that they would have a camp-out in the lounge, and roast marshmallows on the fire, and blow the dentist's bills, they would have as many sweets as they wished.

It was a wonderful night. The oldest son and his father building a tent indoors while the Lady and her baby watched them, giggling every now and then when it all went wrong.

The evening wore on, and they roasted marshmallows.

"Father, do I really have to go to sleep?"

The lord turned and smiled at his boy. Heir to everything in the manor, his pride and joy, the little boy gave him back the youth he thought he had lost. "My son, why do you not want to sleep?"  
The dark-haired child smiled adorably, "I want tonight to last forever! It's my best birthday ever father!"

There was a smash from somewhere in the manor.

They all four fell silent.

The lord stood up, "Probably one of the cats, I'll go and investigate."

He left.

For a long time it was all very quiet.

And then there was an ear-shattering bang.

"Mother, what was that?! Is father all right?!"

The lady stood up, her maroon eyes flashing fear. She thrust the baby into her oldest son's arms. "You must hide, hide in that cupboard over there, and don't come out, understand?" She hissed. "Don't come out no matter what you hear."

The oldest boy nodded, of course he understood, he was a very clever boy. He hurried to the large side-cupboard and quickly shoved both himself and his brother into it.

He heard the door of the lounge open. Heard his mother shrieking. Pressed his eye to the gap in the hinges of the door to try and see what was happening.

Saw a man he didn't recognise.

Watched him raise a hand.

Heard that same loud banging noise.

His mother's scream as she fell to the floor.

Red stuff on her pretty lavender dress.

After that, it all became blurry, and black.

"Tis a pity and a sin…" the chief of police muttered, "You know the young masters were in the room? Lady Anne hid them, y'know."

His assistant nodded wearily. "All this for a few paintings and some bloody silver."

The two sighed in unison and sipped their cups of tea, eyes wandering back down the hall to where he was sat. Next to the female officer who was comforting his baby brother.

"You say he's not responding to his name?" the Chief asked.

"Doesn't seem to know theesen." Was his reply. "Shock, I suppose. What a bloody mess… and on him's birthday too."  
"Ought to go and try talking to him again." The chief muttered, setting his mug down and walking over to the boy, sat there staring straight ahead, black eyes wide as saucers.

"Hello Liam."

No response.

"Liam, it's Police chief Markin, you remember me? I came to your house once?"

The boy blinked and looked up at the face.

"Are you talking to me?" He squeaked out. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone called Liam."

The chief sighed and took the seat next to the boy. "All right, well how about for now we call you L, issat all right?"

L nodded.

"Now L, somethin terrible has happened to your mother and father, and I'm afraid that you won't be able to see them again."

L tilted his head slightly. "Are they dead?"

The chief spluttered a bit. Of course, everyone in the town knew Liam Lawliet was a bloody clever kid, and he supposed that a great many five year olds could understand the word 'death'.

"…Yes, L, they are."

The boy nodded calmly, apparently thinking very hard. "That man with the gun came in and shot them."

"That seems likely."

"Did you catch him?"

The chief sighed. "Not yet, little one. We've got men all over the Dales looking for him though." He looked up at the female officer with the baby, then back at Liam. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

"Hot chocolate, please."

The chief nodded and took the little boy's hand, leading him off to the kitchen.

"Where will Oliver and I live now?"

Steve Markin sighed. He had a boy at home just about Liam's age, and he was lucky, because he knew if anything happened to himself or his wife, he had many extended family members who would welcome his son with a heartbeat.

But Lord and Lady Lawliet had no relatives, parents had died long before Liam was born, and both had been only children.

"Well… you'll both be going to live with some nice people who take care of children whose parents have been killed…" He tried to explain in the nicest way possible.

"We're going to an orphanage then."

The chief rubbed his head, and handed the little boy his hot chocolate. "Liam… I'm so sorry."

The little boy barely looked up from his sweet drink, only long enough to blink his big black eyes and ask innocently, "Who is Liam? You said my name's L."


	2. Lonliness

"Get the posh prick!!"

L closed his eyes as he ran across the playground of the orphanage and not for the first time, wished he was dead.

He hated it here.

The schoolwork was fine, but so _easy_ that he got headaches from the boredom when he finished his work before everyone else. And he never got a single answer wrong.

No-one in the orphanage liked him, he was sure of that. Even the adults stepped around him in the hallways, whispering to one another that he was the 'little rich boy whose parents were killed'.

The children were more obvious about it. They tormented him endlessly, about his matted black hair (he didn't see the point to brushing it) and his odd way of sitting (it helped him think) and the way he wouldn't eat normal food.

He wasn't sure where Oliver was. He was told his little brother had been taken to a different orphanage until he was old enough to join L, but in all honesty, L was at least 40 sure they just didn't want him around.

One bonus, he supposed, as he scrambled up the trunk of the nearest tree to avoid the beatings from the other kids, was that his legs were getting very strong from all this running.

He liked it in the tree. It gave him a place to think. Sometimes he did long division in his head until his eyes started to hurt. Other times he imagined up huge feasts of desserts, until it made his stomach rumble and his teeth ache for just one bite of cake.

"We'll get you when you come down!"  
He bit his thumb and started counting how many triangles there were in the shape of the orphanage windows, then squares. When they ran out he started counting acorns in the tree. He got to four hundred and fifty before someone called up the tree to him.

"L! L, come on down from there this moment!"

L sighed and made his way back to earth.

The slap across his face hurt, but he didn't fall down. He vaguely heard the woman who called him down screeching about how he needn't think that just because he came from money it meant he could force people to worry about him like this.

He didn't take any of it in. Just stood there, one cheek turning crimson, eyes fixed on a point right in front of him, black and unblinking.

Only in the night, alone in his cold iron bed, did he cry.

Only one tear though, because his father always told him that crying never solved anything. And in any case, it stung when it ran down his sore cheek.

"Quillish, there's another report in on those exams you sent out."  
The inventor looked up slightly from his desk, upon which neatly arranged cogs and springs and hundred of other little pieces of machinery were laid out.

"Oh yes? Another little candidate, Roger?"

Roger nodded and handed the sheaf of papers over to his partner. Initially he'd been against this idea, starting up an orphanage only for children who were gifted, but once explained, it made sense.

Orphans had a hard enough time, he reasoned, but the cleverest of them had it harder, because children can be so cruel to those who are different.

Why not bring them somewhere where they could flourish? Somewhere where there were no bullies, because they were all on equal levels of intelligence? Where the lessons could be challenging, rather than tediously easy?

"Impressive." Quillish said calmly. "First child to get every single question right." He sipped his tea, setting down the papers and going back to the little clockwork mechanism he was making.

"Sad story to this one, apparently." Roger spoke again, looking down at his file on the boy who got every question correct. "Oldest son of Lord and Lady Lawliet, saw his mother shot during a burglary, suffered mild amnesia from the shock. It says his name is Liam but he only responds to 'L'." he sighed, "Only relative, his little brother, Oliver Lawliet."

Quillish poked the little clockwork panda with the end of his pencil. It stood up and took a wobbling step forward. "What of him?"

Roger closed his eyes, "Poor little mite was born with albinism, succumbed to skin cancer a year ago." He sighed. "L was told that his brother was just in another orphanage. They say here they thought the shock of it might kill him."

Quillish blinked. "Then he is a genius, and an orphan who stands as sole heir to his family fortune, because he is alone in the world." He shook his head to himself, "I think the very least we can do is give him a home."

Quillish Wammy peered around the door of the classroom. There was the boy, as he had requested. He wasn't sure what he had expected, having travelled here to meet this boy-genius orphan who passed every test he was given with flying colours, who claimed to be 'bored' with the unchallenging work. He was prepared for the fact that the boy would look different to the last known photo of him, showing him as a child with his father.

But he didn't think he was expecting this.

A little boy of maybe six or seven, with a mass of black hair that clearly hadn't been combed for a long time, eyes as dark as pools of night, with dark circles forming beneath them from lack of sleep… and sitting so oddly too.

Still, he prided himself on being able to create anything, if the raw material was good enough.

"Mr, if you're looking for the teacher she said she was going to the staff room." The boy said suddenly, never once having turned away from his notebook.

Quillish blinked, then smiled and entered the room. "Oh, I wasn't looking for your teacher, I was looking for someone called L Lawliet."  
The boy looked up. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

The man nodded his head and offered one hand to the boy, "Of course not. I'm Quillish Wammy, funny old name, isn't it?"

L stared at the hand being offered, then took it with his own tiny one, allowing it to be shaken.

"I'm L Lawliet." He mumbled, then brought his thumb to his mouth, biting on the nail.

Quillish nodded. "Yes. I understand you're bored with your school work? It's too easy for you?" for a moment he got no response, the boys eyes were back on his note book. "What is it you're writing?"

L bit his thumb harder. "I'm teaching myself long devision." He mumbled, then pointed at his notebook.

Quillish was impressed; the paper was covered in equations that great many college students wouldn't be able to cope with.

He nodded slowly, so he had been right to come here. The boy was clearly some sort of genius, though more… well, traumatised, than most of the children he had been gathering. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of affinity for the boy that was blossoming in his chest. He was once like that, he reminded himself. He was once the boy who was too bright for his age, and he knew how difficult it could be to find a way to function.

"L, I won't sugar-coat this, because I believe you'd be insulted if I did." He started calmly, "I would very much like to take you to a new orphanage that I am opening. It's only for the very cleverest boys and girls to live in. Would you like to go there?"

L blinked owlishly. "…No-one'll push me down or call me names because I'm rich?"

Quillish smiled, so there was innocence there as well as the intelligence. The packaging could have used some work, he supposed, but he couldn't think of any way to make the raw material better.

He cleared his throat, "Not at all. The only thing you have to do is answer a question for me. It's not a trick, and it won't affect you coming with me, I just like to ask to find out how people's minds work."  
L nodded, lowering his thumb from his mouth and hugging his knees tighter to his chest.

"Say there are 10 birds standing on a fence, and a hunter shoots three, how many are left?"

L blinked, then frowned a little, as though he was addressing an idiot, clearly he thought this question beneath him. "None."

Quillish smiled. "And why do you say that?"

L rolled his big black eyes, "All the others would fly away from the noise." He replied. "It's simple logic."

Quillish beamed and offered his hand once more, "I like the way you think, L."

L took the hand that was offered and mumbled quietly, "You have a packet of wine gums in your left pocket. May I have some?"


	3. Marsh Mello

I can't believe so many people actually like this! Loads of apples to everyone who reviews!

"Look! L's top of the class again!"

"L's so _smart!_"

"L, will you help me with my homework?"

L Lawliet moved through the group of orphans as though there were a fog, eyes fixing on the test results that had been written on the chalk board. After a moment he smiled and took a marshmallow from the pack in his pocket and threw it into his mouth.

"Every answer right." He said softly, more to himself than the group of fans he seemed to have acquired, and began the walk back to the play room.

He liked it here, at Wammy's. He liked the big grassy garden that reminded him of his home in Yorkshire. He liked the other children, who didn't bother him for being so smart. He liked the smell of sweets that came from every room, because all the children had secret stashes somewhere in the building. He liked the challenging lessons that actually forced him to think.

He raised a hand to touch the wood-panelled wall and smiled.

He liked the fact that no-one forced him to eat 'real food'. The only condition on that was that he took good care of his teeth and kept fit.

He liked the smell of flowers in his always freshly-washed clothes, even if his wardrobe consisted of several pairs of the same baggy blue jeans and short-sleeved white t-shirt. The only variation was the sweater he'd been given last Christmas, white, with a big black L on it, in an ornate font that he had no name for. He wore that all through the winter.

He especially liked that Quillish, or rather 'Wammy' as he and the other children called him, would give him private tutoring sometimes, when he came to subjects that he excelled in.

The years had gone by so easily and gently. Now he was fifteen, and happier than he had thought he could be. L gave a happy little sigh, yes, it was safe to say that he liked his home here at Wammy's House.

"L? L, will come here please?"  
He turned and looked around.

Roger was calling him from his office.

L walked over, "Yes Roger? Can I help?"

Roger smiled fondly. He could see why Quillish liked this one best. One could get the impression that the child was cold, when in fact he was one of the warmest and kindest children there. Always eager to offer help to the other children with their homework, never once thinking himself above them despite being top of all his classes. Rather, he seemed to enjoy trying to make the other children as intelligent as he was. And he seemed to have infinite patience with the littlest children, who often got him to fix their broken toys for them.

"Yes, please come in."

L wandered into Roger's office and let his eyes quickly scan the room.

Two things had changed since he was last in there.

There was an open file on the manager of the orphanage's desk.

And a small blonde boy sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He looked about four years old, and terrified.

"L," Roger began, "this is Miheal Kheel."

L nodded, "Hello Miheal. I'm L."

"Mello."

L blinked, then looked at Roger. He could surmise from the name that the boy was German, and that was one of the five languages he was fluent in, but he wasn't sure what the boy was saying.

"I… excuse me?" He tried.

The little boy blinked and pointed sharply at L's pocket. "Mello!"

L smiled faintly. "You want a marshmallow?" he asked, while taking out the packet and offering it. He was a little taken aback by the little boy grabbing the whole thing from him and pulling it to his little chest.

Roger tried to smile a bit, "Ah, Miheal doesn't like to share very much." He cleared his throat, "L, this little boy took one of the Wammy's house exams and passed."

"Obviously." L replied, taking the free seat in front of the desk. "Or he wouldn't be here."

"You don't understand, L. He passed with full marks."

L blinked. He knew for a fact that he had been the only one who managed that so far. His coal-coloured eyes fixed on the blonde boy, who was shoving marshmallows into his mouth.

"And?" he managed, finally.

"I was hoping that you might keep an eye on him, show him the ropes, so to speak." Roger concluded. "He's a bright boy, but he needs guidance. I believe you had a little brother before?"

L flinched. Then nodded, "Oliver's in another orphanage, because he's not a genius."

Roger swallowed. Of course they'd meant to tell L the moment he settled into the house about his brother, but Wammy said that telling the boy might well send him over the edge. So they had waited.

"Yes, well in any case, I thought that you would be the best person for the job." He lowered his voice a little; "Miheal could certainly use a big brother."

L blinked twice, then stared back at the little blonde boy.

Miheal stopped stuffing his cheeks with the sweets long enough to look back. He tilted his head.

"L my friend." He stated calmly, then stuck out his hand, sticky with the sweets. "L will look after me?"

L smiled and nodded, taking the tiny hand in his bony white one. "I'll look after you, Mello."

When he was 15 ½, L discovered he liked tennis. It started because Mello was demanding to be played with outside. And strictly speaking L didn't really enjoy outdoor games, but he was trying to please the little blonde boy, because he always worked hard at whatever assignment was given to him, and Mello was one such assignment.

And he'd accidentally smashed a window when he hit the ball.

He was told off for that, and his sweets were suspended for a while. But then the next week Quillish took him to a proper tennis court.

After that first time, they went every week. Sometimes Mello tagged along, wanting to watch his 'big brother' play.

It became apparent he was good enough for competitions. So Wammy's house had a mini-tournament of their own. L beat everyone, even the more athletic children.

So they entered him in real tournaments.

Now his room had trophies on one of the shelves, and L was considering playing professionally when he finally left.

But then again, his view of the future was always horribly unfocused. Most of his peers knew by now what they were going to do, but L's ambitions changed on a weekly basis.

It didn't help that he was embarassingly good at everything. The only trouble he had was communication with other people, and even then, only adults. The children, he found, were easy, because they were straight-talking, and didn't hide behind lies.


	4. Remember

"L… play with meee!!"

L sighed and looked up from the philosophy book he was reading, as he sat on his bed, knees tight to his chest. "Mello, why don't you try and make friends with the other children your age?"

Mello blinked from where he was sat in the middle of L's bedroom floor, a doll's house next to him, several of the little plastic models strewn around him.

"L is better player." He replied in his disjointed English, he was picking it up fast.

L sighed and gave in easily, folding down the corner of the page he was on before hopping from the bed to the floor.

"What are we playing?" He asked calmly.

Mello grinned in triumph and pointed at the dolls. "That's the mama, and that's the papa, an' those are their children…" he pointed at two smaller dolls. "And this one is… ummm." He whined and looked at L pitifully, "I don't know what this one is."

L smiled faintly. "If it's a rich family, it might be a servant?"

Mello stuck he tongue out, "Who has servants other than the queen?"

L almost laughed, "I did, when I was little. Only a bit older than you. I remember we had a butler who-"

Butlar.

_He asked father… about the paintings…_

_About which were worth the most…_

_How the security worked…_

_Where father's hunting gun was kept._

_All asked so innocently…_

_Looking through a gap in the door… watching mother fall, red on her lavender dress…_

_Forcing his mind from her. The man. The scary man. What did he look like?_

L stood up, scattering pieces of plastic.

"L!!" Mello whined, "You made a mess!"

L didn't seem to hear him, his coal-coloured eyes glazing over with horror and realisation. "The bloody butlar!!" He snapped suddenly. "He was the one who…"

He didn't say any more. He raced out of the bedroom door and down the hallway as fast as he could go, knocking over some of the other children as he sped past.

He ran downstairs two at a time, landing heavily and skidding to the door of Quillish's office.

He didn't bother knocking, this was too urgent, and his mind was elsewhere, hiding in a cupboard, watching his mother die.

"I know who killed my parents!" He blurted out.

Quillish paused with his cup of earl grey halfway to his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at his ward. "L, please sit down, calm down, and repeat that at a pace I can understand."

For a moment L felt like screaming. But he didn't. He scurried to the leather chair in front of Quillish's desk and pulled his knees up, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe normally, and relax.

"Try again now." Mr. Wammy prompted.

L sighed. "I… I remember who killed my parents."

"I thought you had blocked all of that?"

L nodded. "I had… then Mello said something and… it rushed back… and I remembered our butler asked father about the paintings that were stolen… and about where father kept his hunting pistol." He lowered his eyes, "I didn't put it together because I was so excited… it was my birthday…"

Quillish nodded. "I see… do you specifically remember seeing him shoot the gun? This is very important L. You must be 100 certain that you saw him."

L swallowed.

Closed his eyes and thought back again.

_Mother screaming, falling… Oliver wriggling under his hand. Forcing his eyes to peer through the gap._

_Like a picture developing, the man's face sharpened in his mind._

"It was him." L muttered. "I remember I didn't like the way he walked around with his eyes half-closed."

Wammy nodded. "I see. That's good, being able to remember details like that will strengthen the argument. Now L, I am going to contact the police about this, and with any luck, they will investigate this butler. What was his name?"

L didn't need to pause, now the memories were coming back hard and fast. "James Last."

Quillish wrote this down. There were more questions after that, all of which he noted down the answers that L could be sure of. As the boy was forced to repeat the hideous event over and over in his mind he bit harder on his thumb, eyes growing darker with fright and misery and the faintest flush of anger.

Once it was over, Wammy told him to go and rest, to do something to get his mind off of what he had remembered in a blinding flash of lightening.

How could he be expected to put that at the back of his mind now? L wondered as he shuffled down the hallway. He hoped Mello had gone and found someone else to play with by now, because he really didn't believe he had the energy to do much over reading on his bed.

Thankfully, as he passed the play room, he noticed his little blonde ward nagging another boy around the same age with red hair to come and play with him, "Because he said so'.

L hurried past and into his room, locking the door behind him and falling back onto his bed, eyes closing.

He didn't want to sleep. In this state sleep would bring only nightmares. But he was so… drained. He felt like he'd played fourteen matches of tennis all at once. He head was hot to the touch, but his arms and legs felt clammy and unpleasant. His mind kept clouding and clearing with the pulse of his heartbeat.

He groaned and turned over.

He could always write to Oliver, he supposed. He wrote as often as he could, faithfully handing the letters to Wammy to be posted. He never got any back, but he assumed it was because the boy would be uncomfortable talking to him, they had only been little when they were separated, after all.

He was still young enough to make himself believe every word of these excuses.

He was certain the boy hadn't forgotten him though, otherwise there'd be little reason for him to keep living.

He nodded to himself and shuffled from bed to the chair at his desk, pulling a notepad across to himself and a pen, before beginning to write in his scruffy handwriting all about what had transpired.

He wrote to his brother about how soon their mother and father would have justice. Soon all the nightmares could be laid to rest. Soon the man who destroyed their word would know the pain they had been through. Soon they could meet again after all this time and go _home_.

And when it was done, his mind was eased, and he diligently placed the letter in an envelope and hurried to Roger's office, handing it to the ageing man to be addressed and posted, before happily hurrying off to find Mello.

Roger waited a few minutes before moving, to be sure that L had disappeared. Then he made his slow way to Quillish's own office, all the time staring at the envelope in his hands with a mix of pity and guilt.

He didn't knock, there was never any need to.

"L believes he knows who killed his parents." Wammy said before Roger could speak, his chair turned to the window as the head of Wammy's house stared out at the gardens.

L was out there now. He was playing football with some of the other boys.

Roger nodded. "He's written to his brother again too."

Wammy sighed. "I have contacted the police and they have scheduled an interview with this 'James Last'. It may not be legal for them to bring him in this quickly, but the Lawliet's were well-liked enough for the police to bend the rules. And I have never seen L more certain of something."

Roger moved closer to the window to watch the children too. "Yes… it's very likely that this man was the gun man who killed them. But now our problem becomes 'Oliver'." He handed the envelope over to his old friend. "L will want to know why his brother doesn't appear in court, if it gets that far, or at least why he hasn't contacted him about this."

Wammy lowered his eyes behind his glasses. "I think the time has come to tell him the truth." He sighed deeply. Of course he adored all the children, but L was special, L had something in him that Wammy rarely saw in children with such a harsh experience behind him.

A good heart, perhaps a little scarred from experience, but still basically whole and ready to believe.

It hurt him to think that the news he would have to give might well destroy that part of L Lawliet forever.


	5. Run away

L stared ahead of him at Wammy. His teacher and only real father figure. He was smiling, because he'd been called to the office, and that must mean that he'd been right about the butler, and that perhaps he would be seeing his baby brother again soon.

Of course, he had factored in the possibility of him being disappointed, but he had come to the conclusion that Wammy would look more annoyed with him for wasting time if it wasn't the right culprit.

"L, the police in your home town brought James Last in for questioning a week ago." Quillish began. "After telling him that they had an eyewitness who could place him there, he confessed. They searched his house and found some of the silver he supposedly took from your home."

L broke out into a huge grin. "I knew it! Is he going to jail now?"

"It's not as simple as that, L. He got a lawyer and now he is claiming he was forced into confessing, but the police think that so long as you can make a positive identification, and testify, he will go to prison."

L nodded, his toes twitching excitedly. "I can do that… Will Oliver have to go to court too? He's only little, it'd scare him."

Wammy felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Why, why did he think it was a good idea to keep this from him?

Because he wanted so badly for the boy to be happy. He didn't want to see that little boy who already had enough misery on his mind shut down all together.

He was fifteen now, surely he would be all right?

"L… about Oliver…"

L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L

L blinked his coal-coloured eyes.

"..I…I don't understand." He mumbled. His voice sounded to him like an echo down a long tunnel. "Oliver died…when he was two?"

"Skin cancer. Because… he was like your mother." Quillish stared down at his desk, strange how those black eyes were hard to look at when they were so full of confusion.

L shook his head, not to refuse the knowledge, but to try and shake the buzzing in his head. "And… no-one told me?"

"We didn't want to upset you, L."

He closed his eyes and tried to count backwards from 100, as he always did when things began to break him.

He was at 52 when he couldn't bear it and barked out suddenly, "_Didn't want to upset me!?_What, do I look bloody happy now?!"

"L!"

He didn't pause to listen or allow himself to be told off for cursing, "My little brother _died_ and not one person in this place told me?!" he rose from the chair, standing upright, for a change. "Where did they bury him? _Tell me!_"

Quillish didn't want to argue. "Your family mausoleum...its in the graveyard in your home town, but L, you have to listen-"

"Shove it!" L snapped, and left, slamming the door behind him with surprising strength for one so skinny.

He didn't waste time. He ran down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom, yanked a backpack from the closet and started storming around his bedroom, grabbing things and throwing them into it without any real reason or order.

No-one in the orphanage had ever seen him like this. Even when he got annoyed with the other children the most he did was snap and lock himself in his room. Now a blind red mist had descended over his eyes and suddenly he couldn't care less about Wammy's house, or his grades, or his future.

He didn't hear the knock on his door.

He did hear Mello chirping out to him, "L, Matt an' me wanna play hide an' seek, will you play too?"

The child's blue eyes lit up with disbelief when he saw his idol's frantic packing.

"L, are you leaving?!" he squeaked. Behind him Matt whimpered something.

L nodded. "Yes, but probably not for long."

Mello blinked sadly and ran over, tugging at the teenager's jeans, "Nooo!! You can't leave!! I'd be lonely!"

"You have Matt." L muttered darkly. "Mello, I have to go and do something on my own, and I need you to cover for me, all right?" he knelt down and forced himself calm. Calm for Mello.

"Mello, as soon as Roger and Wammy start asking about me, tell them I'm just sulking in my room, all right? And I don't want to see anyone, especially not them."

Mello sucked his thumb.

Matt grinned and nodded, "I get it! We're a delay tactic!"

"Exactly. Try and keep them from finding out I'm gone for an hour." L hissed. "And don't tell anyone else about this, especially not Linda, she's a mouthpiece with pigtails."

The two boys nodded obediently. L ruffled their hair before he grabbed his bag and hurried out of the orphanage that had been his home for such a long time.

He walked to the nearest town, not many people looked at him twice, it was just 3 in the afternoon, and the schools were all letting out, so a teenage boy with a backpack drew no attention.

He'd been into the town before, once the children of the orphanage reached 13 that was one of the freedoms allowed of them. That and pocket money.

Because of the latter bonus of his age, he had plenty of cash saved up. He caught a bus to the nearest train station, sitting at the back with his knees to his chest and gnawing his way through an entire packet of mints.

Every now and then a voice in his head would try and convince him that was he was doing was stupid. That he ought to stop now before he got into a lot more trouble. That perhaps there were good reasons for the lies.

Every time he squished it. All he had to do was remember the night his life ended, how his brother had wriggled under his hand, as he covered the little one's mouth to stop him crying.

The train journey was long, and lonely. He stared out the window and tried to pretend the transparent reflection of a pale boy with black hair was a twin. It didn't work, of course. Imagination had never really been his strongest point. Not even his usual game of counting all the shapes in things was working today.  
Too much turmoil, too much chaotic emotion flying around all over the place, refusing to be pinned down so he could think.

He knew he'd be found eventually, Quillish Wammy wasn't stupid, and could probably deduce where L was heading. But if Matt and Mello were good at delaying the discovery of him leaving, maybe he had an hour's worth of travel ahead of Wammy.

Maybe more.

He knew a lot of children had run away from the orphanage before. They never went any further than the town. L remembered asking Wammy why this was, given that most of the children were bright enough to get even further away.

Wammy had said that when children ran away from home, be they genius or average intelligence, they never really want to be gone forever. It's a cry for attention, usually. So they go to places they know they will be found sooner or later, because really, they want to be found.

L sighed, was he seeking attention? It didn't feel like it.

It took a long time to get right back to the town where he was born. He got lost a couple of times, because his memories of the place were scrambled, but he found it.

He even saw the manor, dominating the skyline. Dark and like something from a horror novel in the sudden storm that had appeared.

Where was the graveyard?

He had to go to the small police station in the end, reasoning that they would know, but wouldn't remember him.

There was a young officer on the front desk, but he looked flustered as he answered the phone and gave L a pleading look of 'Please don't ask me anything difficult'.

So L just stood there, dripping rain from his hair and shirt.

Until a voice behind him said, "Wicked weather out there, isn't it? Can I help you, son?"

He spun around and looked into a face he'd seen before.

"I'm Captain Markin." The gruff and elderly man said in a reasonably kind voice. "Don't think I've seen you here before son, new to the area?"

L shook his head. "N...not exactly."

The old man narrowed his eyes a bit. "Either you are or you're not."

L swallowed. "Then I suppose I am." He tried not too look at the man. He didn't want to be recognised.

The old man frowned a little and tilted his head, "Hang about… your name wouldn't be Liam, would it?"

L almost smiled. At last, a question he knew the answer to. "Sorry, no. You must be thinking of someone else."

The old man nodded slowly. "Oh… well, can I help you at all?"

"Which way to the church?"

The rain poured down, crawling inside the clothes and making everything cold and clammy, dripping off of stone and grass and turning ancient earth to clay.

On gravestone and flesh.

On all the living.

And the dead.

A single figure stood and stared at the stone of Lawliet Family mausoleum. His jacket long since soaked through, hair flattened to his head and dripping water into his eyes.

On the stone it seemed much more permanent.

_Here lies Lord Harold Lawliet_

_Lady Anne Lawliet _

_Oliver Lawliet._

His eyes scanned sightlessly over the words.

After a time, he turned and walked away. He walked for miles; feet squelching in his trainers, numb with fatigue, but unable to stop.

He found the gates that he remembered so well. He slid though a gap in the iron and walked up the long gravel path. Pale as a ghost.

Walked up the steps of the old stone manor and placed a hand on the giant door.

Realised slowly that it wouldn't open. Of course not. The keys were bound to be in a safe somewhere.

He slumped onto the steps and covered his eyes. The rain roared.

A warm numbness began to fill him.

He was a bright boy. He knew that meant he was becoming hypothermic. If he didn't find a way to warm himself up, he would eventually loose consciousness and then slowly die as his whole body shut down.

Somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to care, merely brought his knees to his chest and closed his eyes.

Not long after he slipped into the numb world between life and death, a man in a heavy trenchcoat came up the long gravel path. The figure was no surprised to see the teenager (who was really still a child) there, merely picked him up like he was a feather.

And took him home.


	6. Game over

"L…L… are you awake?"

Hurt to move.

Eyes so sore. Keep them closed.

"L, if you can hear me…"

Throat so dry.

"Please open your eyes for me."

Force them open. Light hurts, hurts so much… just want to stay passed out forever.

There's a face… face in the light.

Is this heaven?

Words fade in and out. Force yourself to listen.

"L, I know he can't ever replace what you lost… but he looks so much like… and a genius at so young……"

Manage to focus eyes.

It is a face. A pale white face… with snow hair. Eyes as black as pools of night. An angel?

No… it's him…

"Passed with flying colours…."

Though they ache so very badly, reach out your arms. Feel the small, warm body placed on your chest. Warmth floods whole body at that.

"His name is Near… parents died in a plane crash… look after him…?"

Shake head against the pillow. That isn't right. His name isn't Near. You know what his name is, and though it's impossible, you know it's him.

"Oliver."

"No L, it's not Oliver."

"Oliver." Arms close around him, like a little, living teddy. You _need_ it to be Oliver, even if it's only for now.

That voice still protest's it's not Oliver, but in your mind, it's him, and anyway, your mind never lied to you like the world did.

L+L+L+L+L+L

"L… it's Mello…"

"Mello."

Can't open your eyes again. They took Oliver back eventually. Said they'd bring him again though. Somehow you don't think they will.

How sad that little voice sounds.

"T-the doctor said you're not fighting it. Said they can't do anything for you if you won't try and fight."

What would be the point?

Hear tears. Tiny sniffles.

"You gotta get better L. It… wouldn't be right if you…" choking, holding back the D word. Feel a square shape being pushed into your hand. Covered in foil?

"You can have my chocolate… but you have to promise to get better, okay?"

Manage a groan. Maybe he'll stop talking… his voice hurts your head.

"Say 'Yes Mello!' L!!" urgent little voice demands. He always hated being ignored. He pulls on your arm. He doesn't even realise how much he's hurting you.

"SAY IT!"

You _can't._ It hurts too much to speak. His voice makes your ears ring.

"Ung." You manage to force out. Little red and yellow dots of pain flicker before your eyes.

Feel warm, unconscious space grasping you again. Fall into it.

L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L

"Hey dude. You awake?"

"Nn."

"It's Matt. I'll try an' keep it short, ok?"

Faint bleeping sounds. Is he playing a game?

Of course he is, it's Matt.

"All right, level twenty. Ok, listen carefully now. The doctors say you're dying, because of that stupid stunt you pulled. I know, I know, you had to go see your family and home one more time, all that movie crap. Frankly, I don't much care if you want to die here and now or not, none of my business, you know?"  
Bleep.

"But it's really upsetting Mell's. He's been praying every night for you to get better. Even said he'd give up chocolate for a whole month and give the money to the church if you'd get better. I don't want him like this."

Bleep. Bloop. Ne-ne-ne-nee.

"Heh, awesome, new weapon." Cough. "Anyway, here's a little walkthrough for you. One: your mum and dad are dead, some guy shot them. Two: your little brother is dead, disease got him. Three: you're low on hit points. Four: Just because your entire family is gone, doesn't mean you can take the easy route and die too!"

Almost open your eyes. Easy route? This is easy? How can he possibly think all this pain is easy?

"Ah, so you can hear me then. Good. I mean it L, you can't die yet. Just because your blood family's dead doesn't mean you're alone in the world. People here care about you dude. Mello's been crying all the time. Wammy hasn't slept. Roger's popping headache tablets. The other kids are all miserable. So snap out of it and fight!"

Never ever thought it'd be Matt.

Crazy little Matt with his face glued to a computer.

Never thought it'd be him who made the most sense.

Dying is the easy way out. Anyone can die, all you have to do is give up. It's easier to die than anything else in the world.

Living is the hard part. Staying alive is the challenge.

Of course Matt understands. That's how video games work, you can die early, but it's more interesting to stay alive.

Blee-blee-blee!

"Game over… Continue?"


	7. Justice

"L! L! Near's hogging all the trains!"

L sighed deeply and glanced down from his bed at the three children he had suddenly become big brother to.

Mello, five years old now, still as whiney and irritable as ever, his little shadow, Matt the computer geek, who had simply begun following them one day and hadn't stopped since and baby Near.

Baby, prodigy, boy genius… all of those worked. The plainest way of putting it was that the two-year-old seemed to have the abilities of a five-year-old, and was getting better all the time.

It didn't stop him hoarding toys like any other child though.

Currently all three of his 'boys' were sitting on the floor of his room, a huge train set running around the legs of his desk and bed. Occasionally there was a whirring and clicking sound as one of the little mechanical trains went past him, carrying imaginary passengers.

L himself was confined to his bed, under orders not to move unless totally necessary. He was getting annoyed about this, he'd read every book in the library and done all work sent to him by the school and was now feeling thoroughly bored.

"Near, let the others play too." He replied to the complaint in a monotone.

The little boy whined in response and stuck one of the trains in his mouth, using it as a pacifier, or perhaps just trying to annoy Mello.

"Eww! L! He's eatin it!"

L rolled his eyes and tried to focus on the newspaper he'd been given to read. Not that the world really interested him, it was just that he was so bored anything was welcome. There was a big story on the cover about a recent string of murders in London.

"L! Pay attention!"

"Mello, please shut up." He replied without looking up. His eyes skimmed over the names and places of the murders.

The little filing cabinet in the back of his head clicked as the drawers slid closed.

"Mello, could you find me a map of London? With the street names on?"

Mello frowned, about to go into a sulk, then decided that right now that wouldn't be the best option, and instead nodded and hopped to his feet, scurrying from the room. Matt followed him dutifully.

The three genius' watched their big brother in silence as he sat up in bed, scribbling furiously on the map, every now and then looking back at the paper, double-checking his facts.

Finally he stopped his frantic scribbles and smiled in a satisfied manner. "Mello, could you fetch Wammy for me? Tell him there's a 95.8 chance I just cracked a murder case."

L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L

Wammy was impressed. L had carefully marked down on the map each of the scenes of the murders, a fine black line running from each scene to the next.

L had explained it very carefully to him.

There hadn't been any connections between the victims because it wasn't about who. It was bigger than just individuals. And the pattern couldn't be seen until it was drawn out like this.

Each crime scene formed a point of a star. Two points were incomplete.

L had helpfully filled them in with green pencil, marking down approximations of where the next deaths would occur.

He'd insisted that Wammy at least try to get the police to look at this, but he was to claim he, Quillish, worked it out, and not L. Simply because they would never believe a child had figured all this out.

Wammy had to admit it was unbelievable. Still, he had come to expect the unexpected from his dark haired ward, and didn't he owe the boy this much? After having lied to him about his brother for so long? Even bringing Near to the orphanage as a helpless replacement didn't make up for what he'd done.

With a deep sigh, he set about making the appropriate phone calls.

L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L+L

After the first case was cracked, and the murderer caught before he took his last two victims, L began to heal at last. He fought off the last of the lingering illness.

He seemed more energetic, willing to eat more and go back to his lessons, play with his three 'siblings'. It was an endless source of joy to see him running in the garden with them, living his childhood again through them.

Wammy brought him case after case. At first they relied on what they could gather from the media and sent out helpful tips to the police. But after a time even the police realised how odd it was that this elderly gent had all the answers, and Wammy admitted that he was working as a go-between for them and a great detective.

"They want to know the name of the person who is solving all the crimes, L." He said one day to the boy, sat on the floor with Near, working on a jigsaw together.

L didn't look up, "What should we say?"

Wammy rubbed the back of his head, "Well, to be truthful, L, I think you should consider becoming a detective proper. Even the police sometimes bring in private detectives to help, and you do seem to have a knack for this." He coughed. "I believe we should tell the police that there is a detective called L solving these cases for them."

L picked up a piece of the puzzle and examined it delicately, "We could ask for payment."

"L, really, this isn't about money, it's about your health." Wammy cautioned.

L placed the piece, "I am healthy now, Wammy, I don't need these cases to give me a reason to stay alive, I have my brothers for that." He nodded across at Near, who babbled intelligibly and picked up a puzzle piece.

L smiled, "And I am not talking about keeping the money for myself." He looked up, blinking his blank, coal eyes. "I want to give it to the orphanage. You could set up accounts to pay for university fees, better equipment, that sort of thing."

Wammy blinked, then smiled. "L…"

L went back to the puzzle. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, don't. This does not mean I forgive you, I'm just not angry anymore. There's only one reason I want to do this and it's not the money, the orphanage or the thrill of solving the cases."

Near took another piece of the puzzle from the pile and placed it neatly.

L smiled tenderly at the albino child for a moment; "I want to become justice."

Wammy tilted his head, "I'm sorry?"

"I want to be justice. I want to be the thing criminals fear. I want to be the one thing people rely upon. I want to make sure what happened to me never happens again… and if it does, I want to be the one to find the man who ruined a child's life… and make him realise what he's done."

For a moment there was silence.

L sighed. "The man who killed my parents died yesterday."

Wammy blinked, stunned, "How did you-"

L shrugged, "It's not difficult to hack into police files. He was in custody, suffered a stroke."

Wammy felt he ought to say something to the boy, but he wasn't sure what. L intimidated him, to tell the brutal truth. The boy was more intelligent than he was, certainly. And that made it hard to work out what would upset him and what wouldn't.

"…That's… good news, surely?" Quillish tried.

L spun around, scattering puzzle pieces, Near whined.

"_Good!?_" he barked. "How is it good?! He's _dead!_ He's gone forever!" he stood up, fists clenched, eyes low, "He died and never had to see me in court! He never had to see what he did to my family! _Anyone_ can just _die!_ Dying's the easiest thing in the world! Being _alive_ is the difficult thing!"

Wammy blinked. Were those tears? Did the boy sound… choked?

"It's not f-fair…" L stammered. "He got let off with death, I get punished with life…" one hand shot up to his face to scrub at the cheeks. "Th-that's why I have to be justice. I have to make sure… this never happens again."

The old man was stunned for a moment. He had always assumed that L would want to see the man who destroyed his world get the death penalty. But that was silly, L was far more intelligent than to want that kind of revenge.

It made sense, really. Death was an instant end to suffering. Life in prison would have been worse, and a far more fitting punishment.

"All right," he said quietly. "How about this, you go to university and learn law and criminology and anything else you think will be useful. How long do you think that will take?"

L tilted his head and considered the question. "Two years, I'll work faster than everyone else anyway."

Wammy nodded, not doubting the boy's estimation for a moment. "Then you will be seventeen. When you are ready, I will announce to the police of the world that you are ready to be employed by them."

L nodded and sat back down with Near, going back to the puzzle.

"You'll need an alias, though. It'll be a dangerous job, if you really intend to hunt down only the worst criminals in the world. The safest option would be for you to solve the cases from undisclosed locations, using only your Alias to contact people."

L nodded, "I had considered that, and though I may be getting ahead of myself, I have chosen my alias already." He reached into his pocket and drew out a neatly-folded piece of paper.

Wammy opened it.

The image it showed was iconic, and bizarre, but of course, it made perfect sense.

He swallowed. "…If this is to be your alias… then you remember your real name?" when he got no response he coughed and said calmly, "Liam Lawliet?"

Liam didn't move, continuing solving the puzzle with the boy who, in some part of his mind, was Oliver.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking to." He said softly, "My name is L."


End file.
